


So Sweet

by hubblegleeflower



Series: Favourite Ficlets [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Uncertainty, but referring to victorian graffiti which sort of counts, not victorian, prick to prick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a few things to show John, which turn out to be not earth-shattering or crazy hot, but mostly just rather...well. You read the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Sweet

“John, if you don’t want to…”

“God, no, no, it’s not that. I want to. _I want to_.”

And indeed, to Sherlock, he surely looks as if he does. His lips are red, his face is flushed, his breath is coming in short gasps, and his pupils – well. Though unlooked-for, hardly even imagined (consciously) only an hour to two before, this has all gone very, very well so far.

***

John has been kissing Sherlock – kissing him _back_ – for several minutes. 

Bit by bit, their mouths have opened to each other, their tongues have touched, and slid, and tangled. Their hands have roamed over backs and shoulders and into hair, and even – most welcomed, after John’s first startled reaction – arses. Their bodies have drawn closer and closer together, stood as they are in the middle of the sitting room, until chests were pressed into chests and bellies were flush against one another and feet were slotted in between feet and hips aligned, and _oh._

So Sherlock has wrapped his arms around John’s dear, precious, suddenly touchable body and buried his face in John’s neck  and whispered, “Bed?” between small pressed kisses.

And John has gone stiff, has utterly frozen, his breath is caught, his throat is tight, he has turned to wood in Sherlock’s arms.

***

“I do, I do want to.”

“Now, though?”

“ _Yes.”_

“Then what is it?”

“I, um.” Funny, he’s always thought John would be forthright about this. But he’s uneasy now, he’s actually _blushing._ Finally: “I don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock’s head rises with his intake of breath and he looks at John for a long moment, while a few thoughts and assumptions rearrange themselves in his head.

He finds his voice and says, “I do, though. If you want, I can…”

“You…? I…uh.” John stutters in his eagerness. “Yeah. That would be…good.”

***

It is _wonderful._ Sherlock has never, ever tired of showing John what he knows, what he can do.

Sherlock shows him kissing again, standing, then sitting, then lying close together. Kissing on mouths and kissing on faces, under ears and over stubbled throats. Lips and tongue and teeth, lapping and grasping and sliding and sucking. John’s mouth opens, his tongue flicks, his neck stretches – all for Sherlock.

 _Sweet_ , he thinks. It’s so sweet. It is not a word he is used to thinking. _Sweet._

Sherlock shows him hands, and touching, fingers and palms, sliding along jaws and down shoulders, over biceps and up thighs. He shows him the bold press of a large hand on the tight bulge in his trousers, meeting him thrust for thrust as he arches into the touch.

Sherlock shows him sounds, his own sighing breaths and heartfelt moans at being allowed to touch and kiss, and the ones he draws from John with mouth and hands. John moans into his mouth once, deep and rich. _Like honey_ , Sherlock thinks distinctly, surprising himself. Again, sweet.

Sherlock shows him – though he knows already, surely, as with kissing, it can’t be new – deft flicks of buttons and quick slides of zips, palms sliding over skin, parting fabric, pushing shirts off shoulders and trousers down hips.

Sherlock shows himself to John, and sees John in return. They stare and stare. And this, oddly, is sweet as well. The word keeps presenting itself.

They lie together, naked, aroused, pricks hard and flushed – and this is the part, it must be, that John – eyes wide, pupils blown, hands clenched, breath rough – doesn’t know. Ready for whatever Sherlock might show him, but…apprehensive.

Sherlock knows what he wants to show him. Something… _sweet_. He shifts his weight and angles his body.

When one long-fingered hand wraps around both of their hot, hard pricks, John loses all semblance of control. He arches and thrusts into Sherlock’s fist, writhing beneath him, shifting his hips and _wriggling_ his body, chasing the sensations of his cock against Sherlock’s.

He has found his voice in earnest now, and his moans and cries punctuate the slip and squeeze of Sherlock’s hand.

Faster now, and tighter, urged on by the rising pitch of John’s voice and the way his hips are angled all the way up, giving little hitching thrusts with no rhythm or control. By the way his eyes are huge and astonished and locked onto Sherlock’s face, and by the way his cries bite themselves off as John’s mouth opens wide, unable to get a breath. “ _Beautiful, oh, John, yes, beautiful – come on, come –”_

But Sherlock can’t stop his own climax from taking him, so that in the very last seconds before John comes, Sherlock’s wildly pumping hand slides suddenly smoothly, coated with his own semen – _slick, wet –_ and John _howls_ , and his spurts begin before Sherlock’s end, and Sherlock strokes them both wetly through the intensity of their orgasms.

Afterwards, they lie together, letting their heart rates slow and their breathing steady. Sherlock lays his head on John’s chest and trails his fingers up and down his body. Completely at ease at last. It is several minutes before either of them speaks.

“Well.” John’s breathy laugh tickles Sherlock’s hair. “I’m glad you… I wouldn’t have, it wasn’t what I thought – I wouldn’t have known to do that. I wouldn’t have imagined.”

Sherlock smiles into his skin. “No?” He loves showing John things, he always has.

“No.” John shakes his head, as if in wonder, in that way he has. “Who would have thought?”

“About what?” Curious. Also not above fishing for compliments.

“That thing you did. That it would be so…”

“So…?”

“So…well. _Sweet.”_ John laughs at himself, using the word. “But it was.”

“Sweet?” Sherlock tries for a scoff, but misses. _Sweet._ The very same word.

“Yeah.” John smiles. “Prick to prick. So sweet.”

And he laughs into Sherlock’s hair, deep and rich and sweet, like honey.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](https://weeesi.tumblr.com/post/132702896464/in-london-and-the-culture-of-homosexuality) by weeesi and [this other post](http://girlofthemirror.tumblr.com/post/143339853541/i-am-tired-of-saying-cock-all-the-time-well) that started out very silly but was rescued by may-shepard's tribute post. Both posts reference _London and the Culture of Homosexuality 1885-1914_ by Matt Cook, specifically a reference to a "rude graffito" remarked upon by John Addington Symonds in his Memoirs (ca 1889).
> 
> The graffito in question was simple - scrawled on a wall near Regent's Park (near Baker Street) with a helpful illustration - "Prick to prick so sweet".


End file.
